


World like a Prison

by EAI



Series: Tissues Required [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Barry Allen, Barry has Savitar's scars, Barry is an assassin, Blood and Gore, Body Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Forced Feminization, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Len lost his hand, M/M, Mark Isham's Trial of Solomon Grundy, Morally Ambiguous Character, Protective Barry Allen, The Wests are EVIL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAI/pseuds/EAI
Summary: Barry, the League's freak assassin, goes on a killing spree.





	World like a Prison

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, English is not my first language. 
> 
> Barry and Len are in their 30's, with Len being a few years older. 
> 
> Title taken from Russ - My Baby.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

**02:17 AM**

 

_“They took him.”_

—slammed the man’s head against the brick wall, skull crushing beneath the palm of his hand with a loud satisfying crack before he dropped the dead man flat on the filthy floor. Barry spat the blood out of his mouth as he cranked his neck and flexed his sore muscles, taking in the rewarding sight of unconscious (dead and barely alive) men in bloodied heap – their faces swollen and disfigured, limbs and torsos mangled, broken bones jutting out of their skins. He couldn’t care less if there were organs splattered all over, this was a slaughterhouse after all. Tossing the butcher knife away, hearing it clatter, he took off his jacket and spotted a cell by his feet. He picked it up, sent a quick message to the League’s cleaners because apparently, he couldn’t keep his anger in check and the room was somewhat hazardous to see, before he stomped his foot on the cell, destroying it.

_“—delivery for you, Allen! Your pretty slut’s hand wrapped in a fuckin’ ribbon!”_

Ah. He just wished he could fucking do more than just a simple break-in.

He entered the room at the end of the hallway, and gently did he approach the still figure cowering at one corner. Blue satin dress torn and dirtied, cuts and bruises littered all over his darling’s face, thighs and knees, traces of colorful inks underneath thin patches of concealer on _his_ abused skin. Barry crouched before him, weary and terrified pair of blue eyes followed his movement, flinching a little when Barry reached over to brush his fallen tears – ruining the makeup on Len’s face altogether with smears of black and beige and red.

“Len, you with me?”

No. Len was already lost in his own reality far away, _disconnected_ , escaping this cruel side of the world Barry brought him to.

But Barry remembered the exact sentence Len said to him before he left Central to heal, and so, gingerly did he run his thumbs across Len’s pale cheeks, saying – _when all of this is over, I’ll still be here and so will you._

He repeated the same sentence, again and again, and was relieved when Len slowly blinked at him, recognizing him finally. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s me.”

Len’s voice was hoarse and quiet. “B-Barry…?”

“Yes, yes,” Barry’s hands were quick to cradle Len’s jaw, bringing their foreheads together. “Oh god, Len, I’m so sorry… I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. I’m sorry—“

His heart ripped to shreds when Len broke down, curling his battered knees close to his chest as he shook his head – _don’t apologize, you did everything you could_ – eyes fluttered shut. Barry then kissed Len’s forehead, seeing him so vulnerable like this, **killed** him – _I’m here, baby, I’m here. I got you._

“C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Barry swallowed down his anger when he caught Len wincing at his injured arm, where he was missing his right hand and the stump bandaged poorly. He covered Len’s naked shoulders with his jacket, setting one arm under his darling’s legs and the other supporting his back – swiftly lifted him up, carrying him out of this slaughterhouse. Where the white ceiling lights flickered and dripping with spatters of blood, walls tainted with vomit, mutilated bodies and empty bullet shells on display like gold, Barry let Len clutched and holding on to him tightly, trembling as he hid his face away from this hellish shithole.

This was the absolute end for the men who had violated Len, and Barry made sure they would pay thrice-fold. Though it did nothing but made Barry’s blood boil again.

 

**02:59 AM**

 

—settled Len on the couch, given him enough morphine to numb his senses, to last him through the entire cleaning process of his amputated appendage. But Caitlin couldn’t give him more, she needed him awake and somewhat alert. And so, Len whimpered and bit back a scream when Barry and Caitlin removed the dirty bandages glued to Len’s stump, where the lacerations were too shallow and harsh as if his hand was hacked off by something blunt, forcing through the skin and the flesh and the bone. Barry, unfortunately, couldn’t take Len to the hospital, out of fear that the Santinis and the CCPD would ambush them there. He couldn’t afford to lose any more time than he already did, Len’s safety was his top priority – the Santinis could wait, and fuck the CCPD. He might be the most cold-blooded assassin out of the other ten in the League, but he would always put Len first before his own life. And Caitlin, ever the savior, answered Barry’s call when he needed her and here she was, despite the lateness of the hour, tending to his darling’s torture wounds. She became his sister in the League after the Wests betrayed him, rarely went out playing on the field unless her medical service was absolutely necessary.

Barry had his arms looped around Len’s torso, where his skin now cold and clammy, as he arrested his darling still when he thrashed in pain. And at some point, Len had gnawed the meat of Barry’s forearm, and to be honest – it didn’t hurt. He calmed Len down whenever he panicked, reminding him that he was there and would never leave again.

Carefully, Caitlin removed the damaged tissue around Len’s stump and fragments of crushed bone; soothed Len with a lulling song when he cried, smoothed out the uneven areas of the bone, sealed off the open nerves and blood vessels, shaped the torn muscles before she fixed the wound with stitches, cleaned and re-bandaged Len’s stump.

When the song didn’t work, Barry brought his lips to Len’s listening ear, and whispered—

 _“—born on a Monday._  
_Christened on Tuesday._  
 _Married on Wednesday._  
 _Took ill on Thursday._  
 _Grew worse on Friday._  
 _Died on Saturday._  
 _Buried on Sunday._  
 _That was the end,_  
 _of Solomon Grundy.”_

“—b-born on a M-Monday,” Len stuttered under his breath, following Barry as they repeated the nursery rhyme over and over. Caitlin finished off quickly, securing Len’s stump. “That was the e-end, of Solomon Grundy…”

“One more time, sweetheart.”

 

**04:14 AM**

 

Caitlin hugged him, promising that she would be by again in a few hours with supplies. He thanked her, returning her embrace – _it’s good to see you_ – adding the simple fact that he would be completely helpless without her. She gave him a smile then – _good to see you too, I’m glad you’re back_ – leaving the premise of Barry and Len’s loft with a trash bag full of bloodied cottons, Len’s satin dress and **soiled**  panties.

 

**04:46 AM**

 

 _“—Queen Marianne’s Hotel, morning, ten o’clock,”_ an empty, robotic voice said. _“Vincent Santini. Do you wish to accept this mission?”_

Hell fucking yes.

“I do,” he replied without hesitation, catching a glimpse of Len sleeping fitfully in their bedroom. “Permission to raid and kill.”

A long pause.

_“Permission granted. Get it done.”_

Barry ended Kent’s call, placing his cell aside as he continued cleaning his already chosen set of weapons.

 

**05:19 AM**

 

—narrowed his eyes at his reflection, he looked like a walking corpse with bags under his eyes, scars and stitches (and he did die a few times, but that wasn’t much of a surprise) as he lighted up Len’s favorite scented candles and turned off the bathroom lights. Len was up a few moments ago, startled awake and frozen in Barry’s arms, saying he needed a shower to wash off all the caked grime and filth. Dutifully, he wrapped the bandaged stump and both of Len’s knees with plastic before Barry slung Len’s good arm around his shoulder and hoisted him up, leading him albeit at a slow pace, taking most of Len’s weight, to the poorly lit bathroom.

Under the shower in semi-darkness, Len reached for him – too lethargic, too frightened blue eyes met Barry’s worried gaze. Before whatever hell Len had seen, he rarely depended on Barry, but now when he needed comfort the most, he didn’t know what or how to ask.

His lips quivered. “H-Help me? I don’t want to see—“

—what they did.

Enough.

“Shh,” Barry stopped him, stepping closer that he towered over his darling, brought his lips to Len’s forehead and hands cupping Len’s face.

“—I feel dirty, Barry… p-please, make me clean.”

“I will, Len, I will. But there’s something that I want you to know,” he whispered, tilting Len’s head up to look at him straight in the eyes. This would be the final clause – for one last time, no matter how much it destroyed him, he would give Len his window to escape this purgatory. “I’m giving you a chance, a way out. And don’t get me wrong, baby, I’ll still keep an eye on you. I’ll keep you safe, away from this mess. You’ll never hear from me again, but you’ll always be within my reach.

But if you accept me, if you really love me, for who I am and for everything I do and did… I ask you to forgive me, for all my decisions and for the bleak future you’ll have if you s-stay with me.”

“Barry…”

“I want you to want me, need me as I need you. When all of this is over, I’ll still be here and so will you. Remember? Whether we’re still together at the end or not, we’re coming out of this alive.”

Len nodded with a broken sob, writhing against him.

“Tell me, let me _know_ , if it’s too much, okay?”

And so, Barry bent his head down and gave Len his seven-months overdue kiss.

He missed him. And kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

Undressing him, Barry stripped Len out of his underwear, careful not to strain Len’s legs from standing too long. He smiled when Len dropped his eyes to the mess of pale scars on Barry’s torso, where it ran up to one side of his neck and half of his face. This was the tragic work of a blowtorch, done by the hands of all three Wests where they unfortunately, preferred the Santinis better than the League. He idly thought, their damn alliance would pretty much end really fucking soon.

Barry then discarded his shirt and jeans on the shower floor, turning on the tap as warm water cascaded and splashed against their bodies. Their breaths mingled as he lathered and cleaned Len bare from pale concealer with a loofah and soap, caressing bruised and raised skin along the way until the water turned slushed beige, thick and pink. Len’s knees buckled when Barry licked and nipped on the inside of his thighs, trembling and crying, his hand scrambling on Barry’s shoulder. And little by little, inked drawings began to appear – along Len’s collarbones, his shoulders, along his arms, his thighs and his back, telling stories Barry already knew.

Trailing kisses upward as he stood tall, thumbs rubbing the remnants of red rose paint before he kissed him again, plunging his tongue into Len’s pliant mouth, loving his darling’s delicious moans as he continued worshipping the other’s beautiful body.

Because, to be honest, this could be their last time doing this.

“I-I can’t… I can’t do it, Barry.”

_Me too, Len._

“Okay. Okay, sweetheart. Len, hey, it’s okay,” Barry said softly, sliding his body closer to gather Len to his waiting arms. He hushed him, “C’mon, take a deep breath and tell me the rhyme.”

Len tried and stuttered, frantic, watery eyes blinking too fast.

“Baby, what’s the rhyme?”

“S-Solomon Grundy…”

“Yes, that’s right. Can you tell me what happened to him?”

“H-He was… he was… born on a Monday.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“— _christened on Tuesday._  
_Married on W-Wednesday._  
 _Took ill on Thursday._  
 _Grew worse on Friday._  
 _Died on Sat-Saturday._  
 _B-Buried on Sunday._  
 _That was the end,_  
 _of Solomon Grundy.”_

Without Barry telling him to, Len repeated the rhyme again - out of sheer courage that he wanted to remedy himself from his nightmares, until he could voice them clearly, tension leaving his body. And Barry was so proud of him, as he pecked Len's damp cheeks and let his darling linked his trembling arms around Barry's neck and hid his face on Barry's shoulder.

This was enough.

In response, he backed Len against the wall, hands on either side of Len's head, shielding him from the water as he praised him and murmured sweet, sweet promises.

 

**07:45 AM**

 

If Len chose him, he would be waiting here in this quiet loft by the time he got back.

If not, then Barry would have to pull a few strings and leave Central yet again, this time permanently without him.

He was leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, watching his darling frowning in his sleep, curling on Barry’s side of the bed, before he walked over to kiss Len’s temple and whispered – _I love you_.

Barry turned, walked out and closed the door behind him.

 

**08:56 AM**

 

Sunday.

He weaved through a sea of unsuspecting visitors and locals, with a tourist map in his hands and a heavy canvas on his back. Strangers could easily mistake him for a college student on a solo vacation. With his target building on sight, Barry turned a sharp right for an empty alley before climbing up the fire exit to a rooftop a couple blocks away – giving him a wide stretch of open view. As he set the pieces of his beloved Barrett M99 together, he calculated the distance and the timing between him and his target, and scouted for any unwanted uniformed officers patrolling nearby and any possible witnesses. Barry took out his binoculars, observing the Family’s goons guarding the hotel’s entrance and exits. He could take all of them, like what he did at the slaughterhouse, but he needed to have the perfect cards to play if he was to assassinate the Don up close.

Nevertheless, he would honor Kent’s instruction for him to be as discreet as he possibly could, but with the exception that he could do whatever the fuck he wanted at the Family’s mansion later.

So he loaded his sniper rifle with his own customized bullet, specially made for dear old Don – he was dying to see a bloody confetti, and he figured that he should at least celebrate.

Barry glanced at his watch – forty minutes to ten.

He thought about Len, reminding himself that this was for him, before he lied down on his stomach; the butt of his weapon rested against his shoulder, left hand gripping the rear, pistol-like handle and right hand ready on the trigger. Barry took a deep breath, held it – one, two, three, four, and five – and exhaled, calming his nerves and waited patiently.  

 

**12:51 PM**

 

It was a celebration indeed.

The goons searched for him, but couldn’t find their sniper.

Vincent Santini, the Head of the Family, was shot between his smirking eyes that his brain and skull blew and shattered long before he dropped.

But that was roughly two hours ago.

On his bike, he rode his way to the Family’s mansion – armed with nothing but his trusty pocket knife, Kent’s CMR-30 and a lot of magazines. His face masked by his helmet, he ambushed them, massacred every single one of them. Both men and women, down to their children. The Santinis, feared and respected by the other families in the Underworld, now cowered (blubbering for forgiveness) when he showed up looking like a fucking reaper with a gun. So what, he didn’t fucking care.

They beheaded Len’s ten year old sister, so why should he leave the Santini children alive?

Next, the Wests. Oh, he took his time with them. He gave them the same burning, fiery treatment to their faces like what they did to his – and he made it fun, how about, scorching and roasting the entirety of their faces? Oops, he already did. But he grew tired of them too quickly, and literally dug their hearts out to silence their screams much quicker.

Then he finally set out and found the man who raped his darling.

In a bedroom too rich for his blood, Frank Santini was too occupied fucking and spanking his mistress that he didn’t hear the gunshots and the screams. And so, Barry made it easier for him.

Bullets straight to the man’s old decrepit ass, and gave a few extras to his annoying mistress. 

Barry rolled his eyes when Santini demanded to know who he was. To cut this visit short, he dragged the old man by his foot down the stairs and tied him to the dining table, arms and legs stretched out like a disgusting offering. It was out of pure luck that he found a very blunt butcher knife in the kitchen, and began to hack off Frank Santini’s hands – breaking the bones with loud snaps, twisting the flesh before ripping them off.

Now his feet.

 

**02:17 AM**

 

It was seventeen past two in the morning when Barry came back to the loft, and Len couldn’t describe just how happy he was to see his _husband_ all right. He limped for him, cursing his tired legs and sore backside, and cupped Barry’s cheek – rousing him awake from his shock.

“You’re still here.”

“I am.”

“L-Len… It’s not too late to back out. I brought you here, I did this to you—“

“—Barry,” he said, brushing Barry’s red, scarred cheek with his thumb. “I chose this life, Barry. I married you for god’s sake. I want to be with you, I need to be with you… I love you for all you are.”

 

 

THE END


End file.
